


Just Like Me

by veryconfidentsandwichshapedfreedom



Category: Divergent Series - Veronica Roth
Genre: Ficlet, Flash Fic, Internal Monologue, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, this isnt good or anything i just dont want people to think i died
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-05 02:56:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11004510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veryconfidentsandwichshapedfreedom/pseuds/veryconfidentsandwichshapedfreedom
Summary: drew is oddly eloquent here for a character i'm pretty sure couldn't pour water out of a boot with the instructions etched into the heelngl, i wrote this in less than twenty minutes over a month ago and didn't care enough to write a summarytakes place sometime during initiation in book one i guess idk





	Just Like Me

**Author's Note:**

> drew is oddly eloquent here for a character i'm pretty sure couldn't pour water out of a boot with the instructions etched into the heel
> 
> ngl, i wrote this in less than twenty minutes over a month ago and didn't care enough to write a summary
> 
> takes place sometime during initiation in book one i guess idk

I think he's too perfect to be hurt by anything, especially not someone like me, someone so weak and insignificant in comparison, someone merely concealed within the shadow of his splendor. But maybe I'm wrong, as I usually am, and this thing, this horrible, horrible dynamic we've kept between us for so many years now, hurts him as much as it hurts me.

Maybe his throat burns every time our eyes meet, like he's being choked by a thick cloud of smoke.

Maybe, after I finally fall asleep, he does exactly what I do at night, curling his body into a tight ball, arms latched around his thighs, so he can pretend he's holding me while he watches my side rise and fall under the cloak of the darkness.

Maybe he appreciates my company as something, someone, more meaningful than the tired old sycophant who never gives up, the same way I appreciate him as something even deeper than a friend or leader.

Maybe he's caught in a tug-of-war between the innate Candor instinct that runs through our blood, the one that persistently attempts to coax him into a confession, and the urge to avoid demolishing my loyalty if his feelings aren't reciprocated.

Maybe he just doesn't want to say anything.

Maybe he's just like me.


End file.
